Letter from a Serbian Jail
by Lythande1972
Summary: What if Sherlock had been more considerate of John both in his suicide, and in his big reveal? This may become Johnlock. It is certainly a story of a kinder, gentler Sherlock than what we saw in Season 3 episode 1.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: I am not enjoying the way that Moffat and Co. wrote the Season 3 reunion. I decided to write a story in which Sherlock was a little kinder and more aware of John's heart as he made the choices to kill himself and how to return. So this is clearly not canon. Enjoy!

Someone knocked at the front door.

John stood up slowly, feeling old. He shuffled to the front door and squinted though the peephole. His shoulders drooped.

Slowly, he opened it. He tried not to let in too much of the cold, grey winter air. Too much of the dirt and noise from the street.

Honestly, if he thought about it, he really did not want to let anything in. Ever.

All he wanted was some peace and quiet. A dull life. This was what it was now. What he wanted. What he told himself he wanted.

Because otherwise the loss was too great to be survived.

The man who had knocked stood on John's front stoop. He was warmly and expensively dressed. He looked aristocratic and untouchable. He wore an expression of polite distaste.

John frowned back at the man, in equal displeasure.

Sherlock was dead. Why in God's name should John be forced to interact with Mycroft Holmes, of all people? Now that there was truly no point?

Mycroft had all of Sherlock's narcissism and unsufferability, and none of the...none of the...none of whatever it was that made narcissistic, nearly-autistic, sociopathic Sherlock the best friend that John had ever had.

John's best friend. His dear, exciting, beloved, hard-headed, marvelous asshole of a best friend - gone forever -

Two years now -

For a moment John was in danger of feeling something. Mycroft's face blurred before him.

Then it passed.

John held his face still and quieted the quiver in his cheek. After a long pause he managed to say quietly, "Mycroft."

He started a sentence, then stopped it. Paused. Cleared his throat.

Finally, hoarsely, he managed, "to what do I owe the pleasure-?"

He did not move away from blocking the door.

Mycroft nodded briefly. "Doctor Watson."

Silence. John did not invite him in. They looked at each other.

The wind was cold against John's cheeks. It seemed to wrap around John's eyes.

Mycroft waited long enough to be clear that he noticed that John was being impolite. Then he spoke in his typical hushed and leisurely tones.

"Dr. Watson.

"I will be brief.

"I have a letter for you. It could not be trusted to be delivered, so I am here to give it to you.

"I suggest that you read it. After I leave."

He pressed a packet into John's hand. Touched his gloved hand to his hat. Turned on his heel back to the waiting Aston Martin. A car door slammed and then the street was empty.


	2. Disappointment

John stood frozen, staring at nothing where the car had been.

He dared not hope, and yet he couldn't stop himself. Was this, finally, the real suicide note? The real reasons why Sherlock jumped?

Because John had never believed that Sherlock had been despondent; had never believed what the papers themselves had now recanted - that Sherlock was a fraud. No, there had been another reason for the death of his closest friend. There had always HAD to be. And in John's dreams he prayed that one day he would know what that reason was. In his dreams he begged Sherlock for an answer.

He no longer wished for his friend to come back from the dead. That hope, those desperate wishes, had finally died. Now he only desperately wanted the truth. To know why.

Had his wish been granted?

Damn that Mycroft. Whatever had happened, John was sure that Mycroft knew more than John. Damn him to hell.

John's hands shook as he pulled the door closed. He locked the bolt. He backed away, still not looking at the letter in his hand. He would not look at it until he was ready. He _would_ _not._

John turned and somehow made it to his armchair. He sank down and let out the breath he'd been holding. He found his heart was pounding. He closed his eyes and almost prayed. Please let this be from Sherlock...please let it be an explanation of why...why he had to die...

As long as John did not look at the letter, did not open it, he could not be disappointed...

After a long time, John opened his eyes.

He forced himself to look down at the packet.

It was a large manila envelope, dirty with travels, covered with many stamps and postal marks. The post date was a month old. And the language of the stamps looked to be...Polish? John wasn't sure. The letter wasn't even addressed to John, nor to Mycroft. John did not recognize the name.

But his eyes filled with tears. Because whatever he wanted to know would have come in a two-year-old letter from Sherlock. It would have been date-stamped in the UK. This battered letter from two thousand miles away couldn't possibly hold the answers that John wanted so desperately.

God, why was he so raw? He was shaking. He bit his knuckle as just one sob pushed through his control, and then he managed to buckle it down tight once more.

Oh, he had let himself hope, indeed. Poor fool that he was.

He resolved never to answer that his damn front door again. For ANYONE.


	3. Dear John

John sat for a long time, fighting to control himself. Slowly his breathing calmed. He took some deep breaths. His hands were so cold.

After he had stopped shaking, he forced his aching body up out of the chair. He shuffled into the kitchen. He glanced at the clock and thought of Mary. She would be home soon. She would hold him in her arms. He would be a little more at peace.

Oh, please God.

In the meantime, he could make some tea. At least he could do that for himself. And then maybe he would read that fool Polish or Serbian or Czech or wherever-the-hell it was from letter and figure out why the hell Mycroft delivered it in the first place.

His thoughts wandered to Mycroft and Sherlock...

Lunatics, the two of them. Those damn Holmes brothers. They would have been the death of John, he supposed; but somehow, instead, he seemed to have died without their help.

And without really noticing it.

ARGH, he thought, dragging himself back. Come out of it, John. No more depression. No more. We've had enough of that.

And as if he really believed that he could control his grief just because he wanted to, he made a huge effort; stood up straight; poured his tea with military precision. Sat back down.

I will read this damn letter, he thought; I will get it over with; and then I will burn it, whatever it is, and move on, and Mary and I will have a perfectly lovely evening together.

I can do this.

He took a sip of tea.

The cup clinked a few times into the saucer as he shakily placed it down.

He picked up the envelope. He slowly drew his finger under the flap. It opened easily. John thought idly that of course Mycroft had read this already, whatever it was. Then again, it wasn't addressed to John. Who knew who'd already read whatever was in here? Perhaps all of London. Perhaps John was the last to know.

He shrugged to himself, and reached inside of the envelope to pull out a smaller one. This one was blank, but also looked battered and dirty.

John almost smiled. This was getting to be quite mysterious! Sherlock would have loved it...

The second envelope opened easily, too. Inside was one sheet of writing paper that looked to be torn from a notebook. It was folded so that no writing could be seen from the outside. John unfolded it and gasped.

Sherlock's handwriting.

Dear John, it said...

And then came the hardest thing that John had ever done.

Slowly, through fear and pain and grief and despair...slowly...John turned his eyes to the date.

The date, carefully written next to the top right hand edge of the letter.

One month old.

And then John sobbed.


End file.
